


Dramione: He Loves Me Not (Feeling's Mutual)

by 2theB2theE2theA



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 14:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16064612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2theB2theE2theA/pseuds/2theB2theE2theA
Summary: Malfoy and Hermione are thrown together as they escape Hogwarts, where the final battle against Voldemort has been lost. Harry is dead; Ron has apparated with his family, and all Hermione knows is that she needs to go underground. She'll need a safe place where she can lay low and figure out what to do next. It's like Horcrux hunting with Harry all over again— except she's traded in her best friend for her childhood enemy.Let the good times roll!





	Dramione: He Loves Me Not (Feeling's Mutual)

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the extensive, sexy, completed AU Dramione fanfic I wanted to write. I don't have enough commitment for that, and I'm sorry. Maybe if peeps say they like this, I'll work on it. Please please PLEASE leave a comment to say whether you like it/hate it/have any suggestions. 
> 
> Thanks! Have an amazing day and good Dramione dreams xx

“Yes, this is my house,” he said, his white hair gleaming against the twilight.

Hermione stood still, head thrown back. The walls were high and grim, and the windows and doors were glaring back at her. Malfoy, of Malfoy Manor, was smirking, the curl of his lip evident in his voice.

“Good to be back. Hurry up, you can look all you like tomorrow. We’re only here for one night, remember, I have to grab some stuff, maybe some food, too... I’m not sure how long it’ll be from here to...” He was not talking to her.

Hermione watched the house, nerves fluttering in her throat as they approached the manor. How many times had she, Harry and Ron imagined and reinvented Malfoy Manor? They had all laughed at Ron’s descriptions of polished silver toilet seats and Mr Malfoy’s clandestine collection of mood-tailored wigs, but the sight of the sprawling house, comfortable in its arrogance, inspired more disturbing images. Arthur Weasley had given the three some idea of the things Lucius Malfoy had discreetly disposed of of once he’d caught wind of the imminent Ministry raids. The thought of the severed hand in Borgin and Burkes caused goosebumps to prickle over her arms.

Malfoy touched the door with his fingertips. Silently it opened, admitting them into a hallway which was full of light and warmth. Grimmauld Place it was not. It was clean and richly decorated, devoid of spiders, damp and troll’s-leg umbrella stands. Ron’s carefully-described house of horrors was, in reality, lavish without being outrageous, yet its sneering spotlessness reminded her too much of Malfoy’s self-satisfied air for comfort.

“Intimidated by the money?” asked Malfoy, who had stopped beside a small polished table to watch as she gazed around. A mirror with a gilt frame hung just above the table, showing a second Malfoy baring his teeth in an unpleasant smile. Hermione raised her eyebrows.

“Should it?”

“I suppose not. After all, you’ve had the pleasure of being a guest at King Weasel’s weasel hole. The Burrow, right? Is it true it’s underground because they couldn’t afford the stone to build it above?”

“Feeling better now you’re surrounded by daddy’s silver? Why don’t you give it a rest.” Malfoy shrugged, unconcerned.

“Whatever, Mud— oops, Granger. This way. Try not to steal anything.”

The staircase was the startling crimson of spilled blood. They made no sound as they climbed around to the right, and then walked just as softly down a long corridor. Hermione had noticed it earlier, too: the house was completely silent. It had the unnatural stillness of a great beast feigning sleep. Hermione had the unnerving feeling that she was being observed by something with a definite tendency towards malevolence. Malfoy looked as if he had been crafted by the same person who had designed the rest of the house. His pale hair and skin were a reflection of the walls, his T-shirt the same shade of gore as the carpet. Hermione’s mouth twisted into a smirk of its own. She would have to tell Harry and Ron. Doubtless Ron would say something like, “Bet you anything he coordinates his pants with his bedroom wallpaper”.

Malfoy turned and saw her face. His eyes narrowed.

“Ever heard of anti-theft hexes? Mother’s extraordinarily good with them. My mother, that is. As I remember, yours wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what to do with a wand.” He pointed to a door straight in front of them.

“You can sleep there. The bathroom’s in there. I suggest you scrub off whatever filth you’re able to and get an early night. We’ll be travelling most of tomorrow.”

Hermione nodded wearily, putting her hand out to the door.

“You’re welcome,” said Malfoy, a sarcastic grin on his face. “Oh yeah, and don’t mind old Marius Malfoy up there above the bed, though I suspect he won’t be too pleased to see you.”

The room was a good size, with a view over expansive gardens which appeared grey and bruised in the dull night. Above the bed was a portrait of a plump, sour looking man with Lucius’s long blonde hair. As soon as he saw her he began to shriek horribly in a thin, reedy voice about the despicable nature of Mudbloods. Chilled by the glint of madness in Old Marius’ eyes, Hermione was forced to try six different charms before she finally shut him up. Even after she had restored silence to the room, sleep was a very long time in coming.

Morning came down cool and misty. Hermione hadn’t forgotten, even while sleeping, that she was a guest at Malfoy Manor. She felt more like a prisoner.

The events of yesterday had threaded through her dreams, incorporeal and indistinct. As she lay there, surrounded by the Malfoys’ sleek decor and crisp sheets, she seemed to see the smoke and dust as clearly as she could see the mist outside. Harry’s hand as he waved at her had been bathed in red light, his wand arm thrust ahead of him, casting his next spell even as his eyes met hers. She hadn’t been able to find Ron, and Ginny hadn’t seen him for a long time, either. Black shapes were taking flight, swirling with a darkness more sinister than night. She had to get out. They knew her by sight— ‘She’s there, the Mudblood! Next to the blonde boy’, and the blonde boy had fallen, wrapped in a shroud of green.

Hermione’s wand seemed to have acquired a mind of its own. Though she cursed more than she count, it made no difference.

A huge bang sounded suddenly right outside the bedroom door. Hermione shot out of bed, wand in hand, feeling that she was back at Hogwarts.

“Get up. There’s food downstairs.”

Quivering, Hermione lowered her wand. After closing her eyes and blowing out gently, she addressed the arsehole on the other side of the door, whose snort of laughter was deliberately audible, “Did your mother ever acknowledge what a horrible person you are, Malfoy?”

“I don’t know, honestly. Rather ungrateful of you to point it out though, seeing as I’m putting you up, and putting up with you, at my own expense.”

“Forget it. Just— never do that again.”

“I’ll do what I like in my own house, Granger. If you’re not downstairs in five minutes you’ll be travelling on an empty stomach.”

It didn’t take long for her to dress. She raked her fingers through her hair, and brushed her teeth quickly with a bar of lavender soap she transfigured into a toothbrush. The mist outside was beginning to evaporate, allowing a weak sun to shine hesitantly onto the gardens beyond the window.

Breakfast was terse and uncomfortable. They ate in the kitchen, perched on stools as far apart from each other as possible. Malfoy kept disappearing to “see to something”, leaving her to help herself to toast and eggs, provided by a stunted house-elf. Malfoy returned from another part of the house with a small leather satchel, which he thrust at her.

“Anything you want to bring goes in here. Are those the only clothes you have?”

“Yes. I didn’t exactly have time to pack a suitcase, did I?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“No need to get snotty with me, Muddy. It’s going to be cold is all.” He opened the satchel and put his hand inside, then his wrist; then his whole arm disappeared into it. Hermione looked at him in surprise.

“Wow, I’ve finally impressed Granger. Do I get a medal?”

“Undetectable extension charms can be tricky; are you sure you’ve done it OK?”

He ignored her. He had pulled out a thick, full-length black cloak and held it out for her to see.

“You may as well take this.” Hermione reached for it hesitantly, as if expecting it to bite her. “But I suppose it’s up to you whether you’d like to freeze to death, or not.”

“No, I’ll take it.”

“Put it on, then. We should leave before they realise we’re not at the castle.” Hermione nodded.

Malfoy’s easy swagger had been replaced with a look of sheer exhaustion. She realised with a jolt that not only had he left his friends there, as she had, but his parents, too. Last night had, for him, been a taste of what was to come. A taste of life alone, without his mother and father.

“Malfoy, I—”

“Save it. Leaving is my first priority right now.”

“No, I meant to say, you know. I— thanks. For this.” She held up the cloak with a small, tentative smile.

Malfoy shrugged. “So muggles do have manners. Sniffy!”

The stunted house elf appeared, accompanied by a crack like a log splitting. She bowed stiffly.

“Sniffy lives to serve Master Malfoy.” The little elf wore a ragged blue hand towel, stitched clumsily so it hung like a toga. Her eyes were almost black, and so large Hermione felt as if she was staring into two identical wells. Sniffy stared back.

“Is this the Mudblood you spoke of, Master?”

Hermione laid the cloak on the stool beside hers and picked up the newspaper again.

“The very same,” said Malfoy, with a glance towards the bushy-haired figure. “Are the provisions prepared?”

“It’s all ready, sir. Sniffy told the others that it must be done at once, before anything else.”

“You’d better be telling me the truth, Sniffy. We’re in a rush. I expect you remember what happened the last time you lied in this house.”

Sniffy’s long ears flattened against her head. “How could Sniffy possibly forget, sir? Sniffy lives only to serve the Malfoys, sir.”

“Excellent. Put it on the table in the dining room.”

“Of course, Master.” Sniffy vanished, leaving Malfoy to feel mildly uneasy under the look of distaste Hermione gave him.

This time Hermione had her own broom. Malfoy smirked as he gave it to her.

“Remember our first flying lesson, Granger?”

“First time Harry showed you up as the arrogant tosser you are. How could I forget?”

Malfoy’s laughter died on his face.

“Just get on the broom,” he snapped.

As she tried to make the broomstick hover, Hermione forgot her moment of mirth at seeing Malfoy flounder. Ever since she was a first year, she had preferred to keep both feet firmly on the ground. The broom rolled on the ground, putting the smirk back on Malfoy’s face.

“Shut up,” she said. “It’s not my fault it won’t rise, you know, so you can just shut up. It’s actually to do with the—”

“Just use a levitation charm, Muddy. I’d like to leave before next week.”

Hermione felt the heat flush her cheeks as she pulled out her wand. How dare he stand there and insult her! Stupid, blonde, entitled prick— Malfoy shot into the air so fast he dropped his wand. Seething, Hermione picked it up and put it in her back pocket. Malfoy, though his arms and legs were still flailing in the air, quickly regained his senses. He had turned even paler, if it was possible, with anger.

“Put me down, you crazy Mudblood bitch,” he yelled, “or I’ll fly you straight to the Death Eaters myself. And you can watch while I snap your wand in half!”

She made circles with the tip of her wand, and watched with satisfaction as Malfoy barrel-rolled through the air. Suddenly she felt a searing pain where she’d put his wand. She almost dropped him in her haste to snatch it from her pocket. Malfoy drifted slowly to earth and staggered to his feet.

“Give me my wand. Right. Now,” he hissed.

Hermione threw it to him, and cast a nonverbal protego charm. A split-second later, hexes were bouncing off it at high speed. She watched them warily.

“I didn’t know you could do wandless magic, Malfoy,” she called to him.

Malfoy paused mid-hex. “What are you talking about, you mental case?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Didn’t know what, exactly? Do that again, Granger, and I’ll fucking finish you.”

Hermione said nothing. Malfoy’s wandless magic was just an accident then, like Harry’s when he faced the dementors in Little Whinging.

“I think we’re square, Malfoy,” she said to him, keeping her wand steady in case he decided to try and hex her again. “Your little joke this morning was just as unpleasant for me as that was for you.” Malfoy looked just about ready to spit fire.

“Fine,” he said venomously. “But I won’t forget this. You’d better watch your back .”

“That’s a given,” Hermione replied.

She charmed her broomstick so it hovered in the air, hip-height. She got on gingerly and looked expectantly at Malfoy.

“Come on then. I thought we were in a rush?”

Malfoy shot her a dirty look before climbing astride his own broomstick. Hermione did not like the fact that he was carrying all their food and other necessities with him. A swift glance over his shoulder, then Malfoy kicked off hard from the ground. Hermione felt the chill of the morning, and wrapped her borrowed cloak around her, fastening it with the little grasping silver hand, before tilting her broomstick up and swooping into the air to follow Malfoy.

 

“Wakey WAKEY!”

She had overslept. At least Malfoy hadn’t recreated the firecracker alarm of yesterday morning. Instead, he’d decided to screech his morning greeting into the approximate locale of her ear, like a maniacal rooster. She rolled over, opening her eyes sleepily to see the thin, faded blue of the tent canopy. Light was diffusing softly through; the trees made patterns on the surface, waving softly. It reminded her of swimming underwater.

“You talk in your sleep” Malfoy’s muffled voice sounded oddly cheerful.

Hermione was immediately suspicious. She sat up, yawning herself awake.

“What time is it?”

“Time you got up. Want some breakfast?”

“Please.”

“Come and make it yourself, lazy.”

Sighing, Hermione pulled on a jumper and shoes. Malfoy was sitting in a deep, bottle green armchair beside a small fire. Remnants of a cooked breakfast were strewn across his plate, which was balanced precariously on his knees. Half his face was hidden by a large book. He was wearing a fresh T-shirt, black jeans and no shoes, with reading glasses on his nose.

“Morning,” she said guardedly, moving across him to get to the charmed satchel. He ignored her. She looked at his bare feet, thinking she would’ve liked to take her shoes off. Of course, now that he had discarded his, she couldn’t do the same without looking stupid. She peered into the leather bag, casting a light onto its contents. She was so absorbed in her careful search for eggs that Malfoy almost succeeded in knocking her out with a whispered summoning charm, which had sent a particularly stout tome of his whistling past her left ear. It nudged her wand out of her hand— and she watched as it dropped like a stone to the bottom of the bag, which had been persuaded to stretch an extensive five feet. However long it may have been, she couldn’t reach down the narrow opening past her elbow. Hermione rounded on Malfoy, her hair whipping her face.

“Are you serious?” She barked at him.

She had resolved to keep her temper around him, careful not to bate him unnecessarily; however the loss of her wand unsettled her. She would have preferred it if the book had slammed into her other wrist and broken it.

“Not often,” Malfoy replied, turning a page casually. “I was aiming for a black eye, but since you’ve gone to the trouble of disarming yourself, I’m happy to let that go.”

It shouldn’t have amazed her any more, that blatant, cool, sarcastic, self-righteous smirk, but there it was again, radiant on his face.

“You summon my wand out of that bloody bag this second, Malfoy!”

To Hermione's surprise, he lifted his own wand, still without looking away from his book, and sent her wand to her in a graceful arc. She snatched it out of the air, and immediately cast a shield charm. Malfoy raised his head quickly.

“What are you—”

If he didn’t take the hint, she wasn’t going to spell it out.

“Fucking hell, Granger! I thought we were past this,” he groaned from the floor.

Hermione, fuming, had reduced his chair was a pile of splinters and kindling under him. He got up and brushed the worst off his trousers with his hands. Blood quickly welled from a small cut on his palm. She began to feel better.


End file.
